


If I Close My Eyes

by KennaM



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, Platonic Relationship, Post Avengers (Movie), but also could be considered Pre-Het if you want, cuddle fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-14
Updated: 2012-08-14
Packaged: 2017-11-11 21:49:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/483250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KennaM/pseuds/KennaM
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He blinks and there are more faces, faces of the recently departed; he recognizes them, has every feature memorized. Natasha told him not to, told him to leave the personnel files alone and focus on something else, but he had stood in that park and thought of every single one of those names as he watched the demi-gods leave, willing the burden to leave with them. It didn't work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If I Close My Eyes

His eyes snap open and he sits up with a start, reaching automatically for the gun he'd already moved to the other side of the room. Clint gropes in vain for the weapon on the bare bedside table, and it takes him all of a second to realize that he is covered in sweat, and he is cold. He sits on the edge of the bed, trying to get his breathing to still and forcing himself to stare at the bow and quiver hanging by the door, because every time he blinks, faces flash before him. Faces of allies, of enemies. Faces of the recently departed.

Clint Barton tries to suppress a shudder, fails, and forces his eyes shut so he can look those faces straight on for a moment. He reminds himself that they're only in his head, that they're not really there, and it doesn't help.

He is up before he even realizes it, bare feet pacing as he peels the sweat-dampened shirt off, then reaches to pull on his boots while still standing. Clint feels the cold even more bare-chested, but he doesn't mind because at least it's a real sort of cold, a cold outside of his skin. He changes into the first black shirt in his suitcase, the suitcase that has been packed for a week despite Natasha's urging for him to put it away. "There wont be any missions anytime soon," she's said over and over, but they both know that isn't what the go-bag is there for.

After taking a moment to consider, Clint decides against bringing his bow, and instead sets the handgun in his thigh-band holster. His back feels bare, almost naked as he opens the door to his SHIELD quarters, but it's a bareness he's OK with for once. There hasn't been a quiver strapped to Clint's back since he dropped it on the floor of the Middle Eastern cafe. Despite it being his weapon of choice, a part of him is afraid of what he'll see the next time he looks down the arrow's shaft.

He blinks and there are more faces, except now they're waiting in the hall for him and though he knows they're dead, it's almost as if there's still a chance to save them. He recognizes them, has every feature memorized. Natasha told him not to, told him to leave the personnel files alone and focus on something else, but he had stood in that park and thought of every single one of those names as he watched the demi-gods leave, willing the burden to leave with them. It didn't work.

The names had been read at the service a few days later. Clint stood in the back and no one gave him accusing looks, but he saw them anyways, every time he blinked.

He tries not to blink now as he walks down the hall, towards the shooting range, but the light is bright and stinging after the darkness of his quarters. Nobody passes him in the hall, thankfully enough, but he wonders what they would think if they did. He already has an idea what the other agents think seeing him during normal hours.

Clint has one hand on the wall to steady himself as he walks, but though he fully intended to make it all the way down to the range, his feet slow to a stop as his hand brushes past Natasha's door. A part of him says that she is sleeping, that she doesn't want to see him now or ever, but another part of him wants to reach out and find some sort of comfort. The first part reminds him there is nothing, that there hasn't been since since Loki, since SHIELD or Trickshot or the carnival, or the orphanage. Since the day he was born.

The second part keeps his hand on the wall and his feet in place.

He doesn't get a chance to debate his options for long, because after a moment the lock on the door clicks and it opens, and he feels Natasha's gaze on his back. "Where are you going?" she asks, and there isn't a hint of sleep in her voice. She doesn't really need to ask him, and it occurs to Clint that he doesn't really need to answer her, either.

He's already turned to look at her though, and removed his hand from the wall, so he does answer, not wanting to see her anger with his eyes open as well. "To the shooting range," he says, with a vague gesture to the handgun, and he realizes that his hand must have been trembling earlier, and that it isn't now.

Natasha shakes her head. She says, "You need to get some sleep, Clint," with a soft enough look in her eyes that the command isn't intimidating. He would argue - he did argue, days earlier, when she first caught him on his way to the range so early in the morning. The mental exhaustion made him forget how pointless it was to argue with Natasha Romanoff.

Now he says nothing, not wanting to leave but not wanting to confirm his fears, either. Those seem to be the only options. She must see the dampness of Clint's hairline, because she steps out into the light of the hall and takes his arm, gentle but forceful, to lead him back into the dark cover of her room. "Get some sleep," she repeats, and he closes his eyes for a moment to imagine that her hand is an iron shackle, leading him instead to his cell. The image is anything but comforting, but for a second there he can't bare to return to the unjust world.

He feels her take his gun from its holster, and opens his eyes finally to watch her set the weapon on the table by the door. "You need to sleep too," he says, partly because she's still dressed in her day clothes and obviously not even trying, and partly because that's the next step in the ritual they've developed over years of partnership. He can't count the number of times he's stayed up with her, helping her keep it together during her transition, but whatever the number is it isn't enough.

"It's not your turn to worry about me," is Natasha's reply, and Clint recognizes it as a deviation from the script. It sounds promising but he doesn't know what it means. She's looking at him, but he wont meet her gaze because's he afraid of what he wont see in her eyes and he desperately needs to see it there. Instead he sits on the edge of the bed and leans over to remove his boots, and she turns to the gun parts spread out on her worktable.

He doesn't mean to say it, but as he sets his boots off to the side he mumbles "It's kind of difficult to sleep." His hands aren't shaking anymore but there's an ache in his head and for some reason the thought of lying down seems to make it worse. His dry eyes blink and it's like a dark explosion and the faces confirm that it's his fault.

Natasha is silent for a moment. Clint has given up even attempting to decipher her actions; what he hopes this means and what he's afraid it actually means are vastly different, and knowing Natasha they're probably both wrong. She's still standing over her worktable when she says his name in a voice that's serious. "I'm not leaving you alone. I'm going to stay here until you fall asleep, and I'm going to be here when you wake up, and it's going to be alright."

He releases a shaky breath and he doesn't believe her, not completely, but he allows himself to hope. He moves to stretch out on his back, this SHIELD regulation mattress very much the same as his own. "I don't want to even try," he finally admits quietly. He doesn't say why but she knows why.

"It's temporary," she says. He remembers it was with her. "They'll go away."

"This is different, Tasha," and Clint's not sure why his voice sounds so broken.

"This is exactly the same thing."

He has no response, and stares at the ceiling for a few more moments, trying to make out shapes in the tiles. None of them are good, and that just makes his breathing more labored, so he rolls onto his side, his back towards the room, pretending to lose consciousness. His whole head stings and he balls up his fists, pressing them against the wall a few inches away as if pressing up against a coffin lid. He glares at the things he can't see because darkness, when his eyes are open, is finally just darkness now.

"Clint, sleep." He didn't even hear Natasha move, hear her walk to the side of the bed. Her presence reminds him of years spent on missions, stealing intel and killing criminals and defying death. Her voice reminds him of the reason he grew to trust her enough to turn his back on her and feign sleep.

"I don't know," he starts to mumble, and realizes he doesn't even know what he wants to say. He closes his eyes to think, and the faces swim in front of him again, each one unavoidable. "I don't know why," he says, as much to them as to her, "I don't know what the point is."

There is a sudden movement on the mattress, and when his eyes slide open he realizes that she has climbed onto the bed behind him. She doesn't say anything, but it's as if everything is rushing up to meet him.

"Tasha, my... every time I-" Clint cuts himself off to choke back a silent sob, and clenches his fists tighter.

He feels what must be her forehead press into his back, where his heart might be, and for an instant he thinks it could be a knife, until he feels the warmth spreading and it's not his spilt blood. "I know," she says quietly.

"Every time I close my eyes..." he says, taking a deep and shuddering breath, and his chest is finally clear, unconstrained.

"I know," Natsha says again, "and it's not your fault." He still doesn't quite believe her, but he knows that she knows what he means, and it doesn't seem like so lonely a burden. His fists unclench and he realizes for the first time that it's sort of chilly in the room, but he doesn't mind because everything inside him is warm.

The stinging in Clint's head is all but gone, what's left focused behind his eyes, and he shuts them tight to keep it in. His breathing is still slightly uneven, but when his eyes are closed the faces don't reappear. Instead he sees darkness, and feels the sheets below him and the air above him, and Natasha's head as it presses into his back, and her arm as it curls around one of his shoulders like he's a giant stuffed animal. He allows himself to drift off to sleep, unafraid, sharp eyes blinded and for once that is good.


End file.
